He slammed the paper down into the metal wastebasket, seized his hat, banged the door behind him without turning out the lights, walked with a kind of drunken swiftness along the corridor, and as he waited for the elevator to come up, said aloud:
—“A different sense and grade of purity.… Such a tendency distinguishes — it is a noble tendency — it also separates. The pity of the saint is a pity for the filth of the human, all too human. And there are grades and heights where pity it regarded by him as impurity, as filth.”
The front door was open, the evening was warm and windless, arrived at the Square he turned to the left and entered the noisy and crowded little bar, pushed through to the back, leaned over the man who sat on the corner stool and ordered a double Manhattan.
— A double?
— Yes, I said a double. And with two cherries.
— Yes, sir.
And pity must speak with a revolver.
He patted the hard shape in his side pocket, picked out the two red cherries with the toothpick, swallowed the sweet fire at a gulp, and in another minute was running down the metal treads of the stairs to the subway, aware that it was half past eight. Much would depend on getting a seat on the left-hand side of the theater, as near the front box where Jones — if he came — would sit. But this ought not to be difficult, for at the Orpheum people were always coming and going, he could change his seat for one farther forward whenever opportunity offered, gradually get within range. Not, of course, for anything so absurd as rifle-practice, simply for vision. But it was amusing, just the same, to recall that queer business at the Beach Theater, several years before, when night after night the unknown individual had flung down his missiles into the audience — doorknobs, lumps of coal, fragments of metal — for his solitary pleasure in random murder, and for so long undetected. He had been an usher, had flung them down from the top-most balcony, over the heads of the gallery gods, and without being able to see where they landed: though most of them, he must have known, had to fall fairly far forward, so that as a matter of fact the orchestra had lived in perpetual terror. The ambulance stood always at the stage door, a doctor was handy, but all the while the newspapers hadn’t breathed a word about it — superb example of the venality of the press. Had he been insane? and if so, what sort? Perhaps not at all. And if it had really been as easy as all that, and if in some way tonight an opportunity did offer itself — for instance, in the dark little passage which led at the side, beneath heavy plush curtains, to the ground-floor boxes—
He lifted his eyes from the idea, frowned, saw the red headlines of a newspaper immediately before his eyes in the train, was aware of the row of station-lights passing, Central Square already, the long line of accelerating lights, tried to concentrate his attention on the advertisements above the windows. These were Jones again. He knew all about them. His life was written out here in this ridiculous shorthand. Hear ye, hear ye! Now try a real ale. Eat foods that make you chew, say doctors, dentists, beauty experts. The Slouch Softie in Stitched Crêpe of Vibrant Spring Colors. A girl in a felt hat for two dollars and ninety-five cents.… This was Jones, the little man spoke with all these voices, all these pictures, an ice-cream cone, drooling, sprinkled with yellow walnuts, a town crier waving a huge brass bell, his mouth wide open, a disembodied hand spreading an immortal steak with immortal mustard, pouring juice from a bottle into a green glass, a muslined girl, wind-blown, laughing with a million teeth in a field of daisies. There was no escaping him: he nodded complacently in all these nauseating pictures, smirked in all this too-convenient jargon. This was the little red notebook, the pencil, the tweed hat, the clipped moustache. It was the office in School Street, the house in Reservoir Street, the fur collar, the Karl, the Jones. It was speed inscribed with the vulgar news of a vulgar and destructible human life: a Fury, flying with a cheap message in its beak.
And it was curiously oppressive. As oppressive as any too acute awareness of self. Like seeing oneself unexpectedly in a bad mirror—
And he thought of this again when he saw himself, sidelong, in the Orpheum mirror, behind the parrot, the tall and somber figure somewhat inclined forward, a little stooped as if with urgency, the dark felt hat at an angle, one hand just rising to remove it. Ammen! Jasper Ammen. On his way to an appointment. In the echoing lobby, among the palms, the cages, the tanks of goldfish, in a sound of discreet music, a smell of cheap scent, the vulgar women waiting on gilded sofas for their escorts, their knees langorously crossed under silk. The music crept here, there was a roll of drums, it loudened as he entered, climbing the stiff slope of plush carpet, died before him as he faced the bright sunrise-light of the proscenium arch, the stage, the leader of the orchestra standing in poised silhouette.
— Down front, please.
It would be easy — the theater was half-empty.
The little arc of light flittingly notched the red path before his feet, he sank into a chair by the aisle, looked quickly up toward the box at his left, saw that it was empty.
Jones had not come.
And a quarter to nine already—
Two Negroes were on the stage, the fat one, wearing white socks, yodeled softly and rolled his eyes, scraping sinuous feet, while the other stared disapprovingly.
— Did you all hear whut I said?
— No, I didn’t hear nuthin’.
— I heard some news about you. I hear you goin’ to night school.
— Night school?
— Yeah, night school. What you takin’ up, nigger?
— Space.
— What’s your favorite study?
— Recess.
— Are you takin’ up psychology, technocracy, algebra?
— Algebra’s my favorite study.
— What are you talkin’ about! Go ahead, speak some algebra!
— Sure I will. Sprechen sie deutsch?
There was mild laughter, the white socks slid and recovered, the white-gloved hands were lifted in air.
— That ain’t algebra, nigger, that’s geography. But tell me, how many sneezes are there in a box?
— How big is the box?
A sudden snarl of music marked the joke, the orchestra leader joined obviously in the laugh, but the fat Negro, continuing unruffled his lazy and soft-slippered convolutions, added:
— Now I’ll axe you somethin’.
— Sure, axe me somethin’, big boy.
— Where is the east hemisphere and where is the western, and what are they doin’ there?
— Boy, you got me. But do you use narcotics?
— Yeah, trans-lux! Now tell this one. Where is the capital of the United States?
— That’s easy — doggone — it’s all over Europe.…
They cackled together, the fat one yodeled, slithering to and fro, the orchestra played half a bar of The Star-Spangled Banner discordantly, what the thin one was saying was drowned in the sudden applause. They began to dance, soft-stepping, languidly, idly, the slow rhythm delicately accented by the barely perceptible whisper of the soft soles, the white-gloved hands now widespread, now crossed or swinging, the knees loose, the shoulders sagging. Above the muted saxophone the thin one could be heard saying:
— With this dance, boy, I might give you a job making a moving picture.
— Well, tell it to me, big boy, what is the moving picture?
— Tah-te-te-tya. Green Apples. That’s the small one. I also made a large one.
— What part did you play in the small one?
— Tah-te-te-tya. I doubled with cramps.
— What was the big picture called?
— Showboat.
— Showboat! How come I didn’ see you in it?